Faces
by Major-Stardust
Summary: Gotham city has many different types of faces. One shot, drabble. Disclaimer- I don't own Batman. Please review.


In Gotham City, evil has many faces, Batman mused, each one just as bad (if not worse) than the next.

The face of evil is awkwardly handsome and slightly effeminate, strikingly blue eyes staring intently through rectangular glasses. No one who passed Jonathan Crane on the street would think that this was the face of the master of fear unless they had personally witnessed those prominent cheekbones disappearing underneath stitched burlap- and the sheer terror that almost always followed.

The face of evil is classically handsome on one side and brutally devastated on the other, inner torment and endless conflict apparent through those haunting eyes of grey. Eyes are truly windows to the soul, and there was no doubt that Harvey Dent's soul was a dichotomy of order and chaos, plagued by a never-ending struggle between the evil that had recently emerged and the good that was slowly sinking into submission.

The face of evil is black and white and smiling all over, scars pulled taunt into an ever-present, malicious grin, red lips chapped from the constant, compulsory flickering of his serpentine tongue. Just being in the Joker's presence alone was enough to chill most to the bone, and his appearance only added to the effect. But as the Arkham orderlies have discovered, it is almost worse to see him without makeup, to know that this- this _kid_, this seemingly harmless, disfigured pretty boy with hair the color of beaten gold was the true face of public enemy no. 1.

The face of evil is pale and maddeningly cocky, looking down on those of lesser intelligence that him while his smart mouth cracks wise remark after snide comment. His pale hand reaches up to brush his gingery bangs out of his eyes and tip his already jauntily angled, question mark adorned bowler hat into an even more precarious position, his typically jeering mouth twisted into a false pout at the intellectual incompetence of the Dark Knight when it came to his riddles. They were so simple, really. He couldn't understand why Batman considered them such a challenge. Some days he felt like it was all pointless- he'd never find an intellect to rival his own, of course, but the closest he'd come was Batman. So Edward Nigma kept on riddling.

The face of evil is the mob boss laundering money at a seemingly ordinary bank. The face of evil is the man who waited on the corners of schoolyards, dispensing his "merchandise" to any child with the consuming need his products created in their users- and the money to pay for them. The face of evil is the cop who turns a blind eye to crime while pocketing his bribe money. Thousands of inconspicuous faces, all seemingly ordinary, merging together in the mind of the Dark Knight as he worked his hardest, determined to bring order and justice to his city.

Of course, Gotham had more that its share of desperate faces, too. The desperate faces being just as inconspicuous as most of the evil ones. What separated them was the reasons that drove them to crime.

The face of desperation is that of the man who cleans out the First National Bank to pay his dying wife's slowly piling hospital bills. The face of desperation is that of the diploma-less twenty year old who stands at the corner, night after night, to pay for her fatherless children's food and clothing. The face of desperation is that of the shabby homeless man who waits in alleyways, eager to relieve passersby of their wallets. All these nameless faces that haunted the Dark Knight's dreams on the rare occasion that he managed to get any sleep, mocking him. _Why can't you save our city?_

Despite being the one place that desperately needed them, good faces were few and far between in Gotham. To see one would be a refreshing and rare occasion. Most good faces didn't last long. They ended up dead- or worse. But Batman tried to remember that he had allies, suffering along with him, if only to prevent himself from going crazy.

The face of good is careworn and lined, smile lines from a happier time that seemed so long ago and worry lines more recently acquired. Alfred sighed and shook his head at the sight of Bruce's empty and still-made bed. _Well, well,_ he thought to himself, leaving the penthouse and making his way to the _other_ private accommodations of Bruce Wayne. _No doubt he's gone and made a bloody mess trying to stitch himself up._ But Alfred was used to that, because that was just Bruce.

The face of good is pallid as he pours over the seemingly endless pile of paperwork threatening to create a small avalanche on his overfilled desk. He slid his glasses down the bridge of his nose and rubbed the dark bags permanently etched under his eyes that displayed his exhaustion, the exhaustion that came along with the title of commissioner in Gotham. _Just one more form and I'll go home to Barbara,_ he thought, knowing that wouldn't happen.

Out of all of the faces in Gotham City, however, the one that truly bothered Bruce was his own. The face that flashed at him momentarily from reflective surfaces he happened to pass on his nocturnal pursuits. The face that stared back at him while he shaved each morning. The face that was almost always present on the cover of some gossip rag or another.

Because every day it was getting harder to tell where that face belonged.


End file.
